Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet,
performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal
about town, feminist, freewheeler, and
friend. One day, she is going to be an
ideas curator. Which basically
means, she will tell you
exactly what she thinks.
Until then, you’ll have
to read between
the lines.

old poems

Biopsy: the removal for diagnostic study of a piece of tissue from a living body.
Friendship: the state of being a friend; association as friends.
Melancholy: soberly thoughtful; pensive.

The biopsy

the strangely okay medical nature of it how nice my doctor is the residual feeling of it the ache of it in the belly in the heart in the knowing again of what we already know the fucking bill of it

and the movie about the friendship

our friendship that friendship the changes that are friendship seeing it without you the length of it the loss of it the things we all bear all in the name of it the hunt for it the finding of it the unmasking then the bitter of it

make me feel strangely melancholy

I want more wine I want more night I want more sleep I need more walking I want less talking even as I thought that articulated it I got it wrong to you all – I don’t feel fine, I feel utterly fucking over it I stare out over the roof tops and even Beirut skyline won’t make this better I have a Sister Bella and they say that thing the thing I think I wanted to hear that maybe spending their life with me would have been enough but did I want to hear it from them then now and I think you’re just placating me the light is shifting across the sky you are asleep and you look like a child the way you always do when you are sleeping somewhere he is doing what he does I wish that there was someone who would take care of me infantiliser and protector but my friends say that you can pay for the muscle and it would be better to die alone and in doing so they’d just know exactly what to do about it they’d arrive after work in the car with food for the journey and they would drive me up the hill up the mountain to the lookout the saddest loudest music playing they would hand me my gloves and we would get out of the car stare down at the city all lights and useless suburban dreams and they would hold me and let me weep